the idea of my own death

my dead mouth speaks to me
from the endless pit of a starless blue sky
the only cloud swims past
sings the praises of the eagle
and waits for another April rain

my dead fingers reach for me
from the boundless abyss of sunlight
a cacophony of senseless feeling
that dances around the sequoia
like a puddle of melted snow

my dead feet step on me
from the soft black below the grassy soil
a pyre of burning pain
that buries me with stars
like a casket of symphonic night

my dead brain thinks nothing
so loudly the darkness becomes noise
cold spring air rides down to my ashes
and i drown in the idea
of such a happy moment.